


Depth of Field

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Advent Amnesty Stories [5]
Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Advent Amnesty, Case Fic, Cliffhangers, Dark, Headhunting, Knifeplay, M/M, Plotty, Snark, WIP, relationships, this will get finished
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-06 19:24:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8765887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: There's a serial killer operating up the coast, but Matthew McCormick's an ASAC now; that's not his job anymore.  A student and apprentice of Xavier St. Cloud's is living in the Bay Area.  Oh, and the man Duncan MacLeod was interested in has shown up unexpectedly.  Their problems have not stopped multiplying.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **NB:** Rated: NC-17 for m/m sex and for violence. Part 6 of the series "Southern Comfort. You don't have to have read the others, but this will make more sense if you have. Be advised: this series was started years ago and is set in '99. Last, if m/m relationships bother you, this is  not the right story for you.

San Francisco, Monday, June 21, 1999 

To snark or not, that was the question. A vorpal sword would have settled the issue, granted, but he could do without a Boojum....

Methos studied the interior of the refrigerator thoughtfully, ignoring the cold air spilling out onto the tile floor -- renting out the other side or not, if MacLeod had a house this size to himself in San Francisco, he wasn't hiding much of his money -- and considered, again, whether it was worth twitting the man over the lifestyle changes. _Hmm, he hasn't seen my place outside London yet, but maybe I'd better not._

The refrigerator contents were interesting, however. As usual, Duncan had fresh produce of varying kinds -- Methos wanted to taste whatever he was going to do with chard, beets, and fingerling potatoes -- and various savories to let him influence the results. Capers, three kinds of mustard, wine and beer, milk and three kinds of juice, cheeses, deli meats and breads: no surprise, in and of themselves, but Duncan didn't usually drink Harp or Sam Adams. He preferred Beck's and local microbreweries. For that matter, the mineral water was usual for him but the sports drinks weren't. Those were more Richie's style, but the boy had been dead two years and some now.

Methos moved his exploration along to the freezer and raised an eyebrow at that, too. Ice cream, coffee beans, soup stock, frozen vegetables and fruits, of course... but also sealed containers of various sizes, neatly labeled, and portioned for one. It almost looked as if MacLeod was expecting Amanda to come through, although Methos wasn't entirely sure she'd mastered a microwave either. Toast and tea were about Amanda's speed, or cheese and crackers, or takeaway. Reheating lasagna and green beans with lemon and almonds might be asking a bit much of her.

He, on the other hand, had adopted microwaves almost as soon as they had come out, for the speed, the ease, and the impending ubiquity. Penne puttanesca and Italian spinach ended up on his plate; he drained one Sam Adams while he was assembling and heating the food. Methos wandered into the living room, nosing around to see which items were new to him. He tossed his coat onto the coffee table and made it back to the kitchen in time for the scent from the microwave to confirm that the ping of 'done' actually meant 'ready'.

Plate in one hand and a second bottle of beer in the other, he strolled back in and propped his feet up, settling into the couch with the comfort of long familiarity. This one might be tawny corduroy rather than the green leather he'd gotten used to in Seacouver, but it was every bit as long and gloriously overstuffed. Sleeping on it would be perfectly comfortable if it turned out that MacLeod didn't have a guest room. He'd have to explore after he ate.

The Italian spinach was definitely up to Duncan's standards. The puttanesca tasted different from the last batch Duncan had cooked for him in Paris, less traditional and much spicier. A very pleasant change. It needed the beer to cut it, and left Methos wishing he had some garlic bread to sop up the last of the sauce. The final swallow of beer had vanished and he was debating coffee -- which would require getting up, finding the grinder, and a few other steps -- when he felt another immortal and then heard steps in the hallway.

Methos looked up, already starting to tease Duncan into doing the hard work on the coffee. "The pasta's up to--"

He cut the sentence off while he hastily reconsidered the situation. That wasn't Duncan, and the pistol aimed at him meant he'd probably have to get the coffee himself. Damn.

<> <> <>

A moment ago, Matthew McCormick had been bone-tired. The adrenaline jolt of an unexpected immortal sitting on Duncan's couch had wiped that away, although the bill would come due soon enough and viciously enough. Worse still, he knew the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued bastard lounging on the couch. No, not just sprawling there. The man was wriggling farther back into the cushions... trying to seduce him again? Hardly as if that had worked last time. Or any of the times before, for that matter.

"William Samuels. Breaking and entering instead of smuggling? Or in addition to it?"

Samuels, or whatever his name might be now, only smiled slowly in greeting. It was almost enough to make a man want to shoot him on general principle.

"Matthew Radclyffe. Still upholding the status quo for the local authorities?" Samuels folded his arms behind his head, leaning back and leaving his neck exposed for a moment. Familiar trick, that. "And what makes you think I'm not a welcome guest?"

"I never said you weren't welcome here, since I don't know one way or the other," Matthew said softly. He held the gun steady on Samuels' chest both for the larger target and because it would make less mess to clean up than a head shot. "I said you don't have keys."

"I didn't have keys in Paris or Seacouver either," Samuels commented casually. "Duncan's never minded me dropping in. You're not going to shoot me, Radclyffe. You'd have to get the blood off the floor, and this carpet's almost as old as MacLeod is. He's fond of it."

Matthew just studied Samuels, feeling far too cold and too calm for his own liking. "Most of it would get on the couch and I assure you, that's more easily cleaned up." The man was still abominably relaxed... and he'd been too relaxed when another immortal came in. _Damnation. He really is a friend of Duncan's._ Matthew holstered his gun reluctantly. "I see you ate my dinner."

"Duncan's cooking is always worth eating and I was hungry. There's plenty left. There's even more of the pasta, and your Sam Adams." Samuels smirked at him. Definitely a smirk, not a smile.

_And making the point that he knows what's in Duncan's refrigerator, and what should be there. One century, this motherless son is going to show up when I've gotten sleep in the last twenty-four hours. Hell will freeze over first, more likely. No. That's giving him far too much credit._

"You never did have any sense," Matthew finally said, eyeing him thoughtfully. "Do remember I'm the one with the pistol. Come along where I can keep an eye on you. And so that you can't say you weren't warned -- if you put that coat back on, I will shoot you."

Samuels smiled at him, smug as ever, and waved an arm towards the kitchen. "I'd say after you, but that might not go over well. I'll make the coffee. You'd forget to use decaf."

Matthew backed up to watch him. "You can go first, by all means, but I don't believe I'll be drinking anything you've made. You do seem the type to hold a grudge."

Samuels stood up and collected his mess, then sauntered past him with a sway of hips and ass meant to tantalize. "Why would I poison you? You only had me hanged," he said, sardonic as ever. "It could have been worse."

"Cutting your hands off, say? It was suggested." Matthew watched him, thinking that a desire to horsewhip the man probably wasn't the reaction Samuels had intended to elicit. "And I'm not the damn fool who got caught red-handed in public."

"The tea tax was a fool’s move."

"It was," Matthew agreed calmly. "Of course, so was bringing a wagon-load of contraband tea past the customs office, much less driving it by another immortal."

"The clerks had been paid to let me by," Samuels said coldly and moved to the sink to drop his plates in and fill the coffeepot. "And that tax wasn't in place when the ship left for that tea."

Matthew rooted through the freezer and chewed on that new data, most of his attention still on the noises from the other immortal. _I did wonder how much of a coincidence it was that those clerks died that winter. No coincidence at all, I daresay. So Samuels is more dangerous than he lets on. No surprise from one of us, but worth remembering._

Matthew pulled out the first thing that came to hand in the freezer, saw it was gumbo, and decided his luck was finally looking up again. After forty hours on duty, that was a pleasant surprise. He dumped the gumbo into one pot, measured hot water into a second pot, salted it, turned both burners on, and pulled the rice canister forward. Beer was only briefly a consideration, unfortunately. He was too tired to risk alcohol around Samuels.

Matthew reached into the freezer and pulled out a bag of ground coffee he kept there just for nights like this. Setting up an espresso maker with half the coffee and a full measure of water would give him a perfectly good single cup of coffee that Samuels wouldn't have touched.

"Not drinking my coffee? Paranoid of you." Samuels eyed him up and down, gaze lingering just a moment too long below the belt. "Living here or just stopping in regularly?"

"I daresay that's none of your business. If it was, you'd know the answer already." Matthew pushed the gumbo around with a spoon, watching it thaw and wishing it would heat faster. He wanted his dinner and some caffeine, and he'd been hoping to spend the night here rather than go back to Oakland; he had to be up in time for an eight AM court appearance in San Francisco. The water finally boiled and Matthew resisted thoughts about watched pots as he dumped the rice in.

"Oh, I don't know." Samuels lounged against the counter, eyes bright and interested and his smile was both too knowing and too presumptuous. "It might be my business. Or you might want to ask me a few questions about MacLeod, and I'd want _quid pro quo_. He's an old friend, but not precisely legal in  everything."

The espresso maker was still gurgling its way through the death throes of that particular batch of water, which meant he couldn't throw the coffee in Samuels' eyes. Besides, Matthew had been promising himself proper coffee for easily twelve hours now.... He needed the food, too, which left out the rice and the gumbo. A gun would make too much damn noise, and he didn't want to fill out more paperwork. Not after ten straight hours of paperwork, depositions and court appearances. And Duncan would never quite forget it if Matthew used one of his cooking knives to fillet the bastard.

Matthew finally shrugged and decided to make it clear that he knew where the weapons were, if not the precise particulars of Samuels' most vulnerable points. It was also the simplest attack he could think of just now that might shut Samuels up long enough for Matthew to get dinner.

"I'm well aware of parts of Duncan's history. I also know the source of some of those habits, and I have the gentleman's number on speed dial. Kindly shut up or I'll call and offer to reimburse his flight out here. I imagine he'd have a few words to say about ' _quid pro quo_ ' from someone who claims to be a friend."

Samuels paused to decide who, exactly, Matthew meant -- then his eyes narrowed. "Did you just threaten me with Connor MacLeod?"

Matthew glanced up at him, baring his teeth in something slow and not at all a smile. "I might stop at shooting you. Connor's far less generous, particularly where clan's concerned."

<> <> <>

The unseasonable rain had started just as Duncan got off of BART, although he'd been able to smell it coming for more than an hour. The sunset had been spectacularly red as the front rolled in, and the wind had picked up steadily, driving fog in from the warmer ocean to the rapidly-cooling land. Now the sky was falling in, the sheets of rain driving gaps into the fog that refilled every time the gusts let up. Any plans Duncan had had for a walk were gone now. Instead, his choices for the evening looked like a toss-up between practicing katas or browsing _The Mad Hatter_ for a new book and winding up at _Chicago Blues_ for a drink and some of Joe's music. Either one was going to have to wait until he got some dinner at home first, too, and let the storm abate.

The adrenaline spike of another immortal's presence nearby told Duncan that his plans might be changing yet again.

Matthew had called Sunday afternoon, canceling coffee plans with a regretful murmur about 'The Bureau never sleeps, unfortunately, and thinks we don't either.' Amanda and Cory had vanished together a month before, squabbling about who had the better accent in modern Polish and discussing a perennially under-funded orphanage. Marcus Constantine was coming for a antiquities conference, but that wasn't taking place for another six weeks.

Duncan moved towards the kitchen with his katana cocked behind his back -- just in case.

 _I might need it,_ he realized. Matthew was leaning hipshot against the range, shirt collar undone, jacket more rumpled even than usual, and looking as if he hadn't seen a bed for sleep in-- Duncan resisted the urge to tally the time precisely, although he suspected he could. The snap on Matthew's pistol holster was unfastened and he looked as though he would gladly pull the gun on Methos. The kitchen smelled of garlic, lemon and spices, but Matthew was still heating something on the stove. Which meant Methos had been here first, made himself dinner, and had probably broken in, for that matter.

Methos slouched against the counter opposite Matthew, mouth set in a mocking angle that belied the intensity of his gaze. He was still in well-worn pants, although he'd switched from jeans to cords, and his outsized sweater was better quality than usual. From the looks of it, he was still playing the perennial grad student, if one a little better off financially. He was also flirting blatantly and pretending he was harmless.

Matthew didn't seem to believe either implication. The tension between the two of them strangled Duncan's greetings in his throat, and gave him a moment to debate whether he was still angry that Methos had finally reappeared, after more than a year this time.

 _No. We'll talk about that later._ Duncan sheathed his sword and walked in, smiling at Matthew rather than kissing him hello. As tense and tired as Matthew looked, it would be better to let him decide how much he wanted to reveal about their relationship -- certainly until Duncan had a better idea of where things stood between him and Methos. "Finally got away from work, then?"

Matthew nodded and returned the smile with interest. He didn't move to steal a kiss, however, and he sounded far too taut as he said, "Barely, if you call needing to be in court by eight tomorrow an escape."

"Not really, but I'm not sure there is any escape from bureaucracies short of quitting and moving, and maybe not then." Duncan crossed the kitchen to hang his coat up to drip. He gave Methos a second quick glance, taking in the slightly longer hair, the way it made Adam look even younger than usual, and the relaxed set to his shoulders. Mostly, Duncan was fixing the correct name firmly in his mind. "Do we blame the Chinese for those?"

Adam chuckled and pulled down a second mug for the coffee. The pot was full, Duncan realized, and his eyes flicked to Matthew's own mug, wondering if he'd made tea or had some reason not to want to drink any coffee Adam had made.

"Of course not, Duncan. The West has managed to develop civil services every bit as annoying, and much less amenable to bribes."

The rare use of his first name caught Duncan's attention as Adam added cream to the coffee and managed to caress Duncan's wrist as he handed the mug over. Worse, Duncan couldn't have ignored either incongruity if he'd tried. Focused on both men, trying to keep the peace between them, Duncan never had a chance of missing the warmth and strength of Adam's fingers; he might as well have trailed streaks of heat along Duncan's skin. His quickening would have healed those. The sudden tightening of his belly made Duncan uneasily aware that other burns might not heal nearly as swiftly.

He moved to take over the stove, as much to cover his sudden flush as because he enjoyed feeding anyone under his roof. He considered cooking, then decided something quick and easy might be a better idea just now. The cold air of the refrigerator was a welcome distraction, but the hum of the compressor kicking on made it suddenly clear that neither Matthew nor Adam had filled the silence behind him. Duncan turned around, hands full of sandwich makings, and promptly put his foot in it. "I take it you two know each other?"

"Not this century," Matthew drawled, and the deliberately lazy tone reminded Duncan uncomfortably of their first meeting when Matthew had considered arresting him to get to Carl. Matthew was studying the kitchen furnishings from the same lidded glance that had studied a Slinky; he looked just as ready to start mayhem now.

"Yes, well, hanging me was such a memorable first meeting, we've had to work to keep topping it," Adam said casually -- too casually, the last words barely weighted.

"Oh, your capacity to be a damn fool has rarely been topped," Matthew said softly, and he was watching Adam closely now. "Daresay you've come close once or twice though."

"Not really. But bottoming can be fun." Adam smiled slowly and added, "Duncan, that's not enough meat for you."

Duncan looked down at the sandwich he'd been assembling: honey mustard, brie, a pear that would have gone bad in another day or two, some sun-dried tomatoes that were open.... "It's not intended to have meat." He looked up and shrugged. "Business lunch earlier."

"Can't have you getting off-balance. In your training, that is," Adam said and tilted his beer up. Wrapping his lips around the neck seemed to take longer than usual; a single drop trickled out.

Duncan looked away, wondering when Methos had started flirting with him -- or if he'd only now started noticing. Right now, however, he had one friend -- _And potential lover?_ he wondered -- in town unexpectedly. He also had one lover -- _And how do you stay friends if you want Methos?_ that same little voice wondered -- in need of food, and reassurance, and sleep.

Well. It wouldn't be the first time he'd balanced something like this. A sudden, too vivid memory of Tessa's reaction to Amanda made Duncan wince. Come to think of it, that hadn't gone well.

<> <> <>

"And here I thought you specialized in keeping people off-balance?" Matthew aimed the jibe at Samuels, but he was more interested in whether he needed to stir the gumbo. He was also trying to sort out whether he cared more about food than about trying to piece together Duncan's reactions to Samuels' blatant pass. The startled flush looked a little too familiar from last year in D.C. For that matter, Duncan had kept losing track of that conversation, too. _Surely this isn't the first pass Samuels has made at him? Duncan's a skilled fighter and Samuels would rather fuck than fight, so far as I can tell. Or perhaps not. The deaths of those clerks do change the picture._

Matthew gathered his wits back from their scattered directions when he noticed a plate in front of him; it held about a third of Duncan's sandwich, which smelled delicious.

"Did they give you time to eat, or have you been living on coffee again?" Duncan asked, his voice gone gentle as it did when he fussed that Joe had been on his feet too much. Duncan smelled of fresh-cut wood, wood stain, and new rain, although the storm had only just started and showed signs of pouring all night. In combination, it was enough to tell Matthew he'd probably worked late at the antiques store he was opening.

Matthew took the sandwich and managed a smile in apology for his temper; he also tried to keep his eyes from giving away his worries. "There was a sandwich somewhere in there, and someone brought in doughnuts mid-afternoon. Dreadful sense of humor on the woman, but it's rare enough to have a new agent who still admits she has one." He shrugged and sipped his coffee, grateful for caffeine that hadn't scorched all afternoon.

"So you've had caffeine, lunch, and a sugar rush? And they want you back by eight." Duncan reached past him to stir the gumbo, let his hand rest on Matthew's shoulder for a brief, warm moment on the withdrawal. "Eat the sandwich, why don't you? The gumbo's almost ready. Adam, have you got someplace to stay or were you planning on taking over my couch again?"

"If it's not too much trouble...?" Samuels/Adam smiled at Duncan's question -- a small smile, private and knowing. "God forbid the clan chieftain's hospitality be impugned."

Matthew bit into the sandwich while he watched them talk, trying to decide why he was bothered by Samuels' flirting with Duncan. God knew Samuels made passes at him every time they ran into each other. For that matter, he'd made passes at Constantine, Ceirdwyn, and Kastagir, that Matthew knew of.

Of course, Matthew ignored his offers. Duncan… was noticing them, at the least, which might be part of what Matthew was worrying at. Unfortunately he didn't think that was all of it; he just couldn't quite put a mental finger on the rest.

Duncan pulled out a beer, opened it, and passed it over to go with the sandwich. "Here, Matthew. That'll be dry if you've been drinking coffee all day." He glanced in the fridge and asked, "Adam, did you have to drink half of his beer? And of course it's not too much trouble to put you up, but you can help make your bed. Telephones have been around more than a hundred years now, you know. You could try calling occasionally before you show up."

"And ruin the surprise?" Samuels glanced at Matthew, amused and secretive as ever. "It made life more interesting."

"S'pose it did at that," Matthew said, alternating between the beer and the sandwich, grateful as always that Duncan still enjoyed cooking and was so good at it. After days like this, scrambling eggs and making toast was as much bother as Matthew had energy for. Fortunately, Duncan didn't mind leaving leftovers in the freezer for him.

Matthew finished the sandwich and checked the rice, saying over his shoulder, "And it's Matthew McCormick this century."

"And here Radcliffe suited you so well. Oh, well, McCormick's better than Graham or Campbell, I suppose. When are you going back to an English surname, anyway?" That knowing gleam was back in Adam's eyes. "Did you have to go with Buchanan, or was that just for propriety?"

Rage surged through Matthew, focusing his attention and leaving his voice as cold as the beer he'd been drinking. He let the drawl go slow and dangerous as he said, "My names are none of your business, Samuels. Even more so, my students are none of your business. You've had your two warnings. Next time you go for blood, one of us is going to draw it."

Duncan moved to stand between them, but he was glaring at Adam as he said, "Matthew, Adam's a friend, and I'd rather you didn't put his blood on my floor." Duncan added grimly, "But, Adam? You and I are overdue for a talk about pushing buttons. Starting with mine, about sixteen months ago."

Samuels' chin came up, and Matthew swallowed his rage back down when he realized that Duncan had broken the bastard's imperturbable calm.

Duncan added, "Matthew's a friend of mine, too, so quit goading him. And don't point out that you don't have a blade out, Adam."

Samuels drew a breath, eyeing Matthew warily. He clearly hadn't expected the rage, or that Matthew would keep a hand resting on the rack of knives. _Good. God forbid I be the only one off-balance._

With the faintest quirk of mouth and tilt of head, Samuels changed the topic. "There were a few people looking for Adam Pierson. It's Ben Dawson these days."

The gumbo was bubbling and the rice a hair's breadth from scorching, so Matthew deliberately turned his back and poured his dinner into a bowl while it was still edible. It took a long moment to make himself do so; his hand kept wanting to curl around gun butt or blade handle. Samuels moved restlessly behind him, and Duncan's feet shifted at the same moment. Matthew resisted the urge to look back.

"I mean it, Adam. Ben. Damn. That'll take a little while to get used to. If you push your luck again, I'm going to stay out of Matthew's way while he tries to break your neck, and you're both going to clean up any mess." Duncan paused -- probably giving the reprobate his most old-fashioned look. "And speaking of broken necks, does Joe know about your new name?"

Matthew moved to the kitchen table, trying not to let a comfortable chair and hot food and cold beer convince him he could sleep now. Not when he didn't know yet if he needed to catch BART to Oakland.

Samuels shrugged off Duncan's comment and moved to refill both their mugs. He poured cream into Duncan's without asking, and Matthew found himself wondering if that was normal between them, another attempt to goad him with the assumption of familiarity, or a chance to flirt with Duncan? The last two at once seemed likely, come to that.

"Joe won't know about my new name until I tell him or I have to change identities again and he gets an inheritance he doesn't expect."

"He's more likely to get a gun. Or tell you to get some sense," Duncan pointed out. He reached past Matthew for a napkin only to pause, a concerned frown on his face. He said very softly, "Matthew. You need a hot meal and sleep. I'll handle this." His hand lay warm against Matthew's cheek, sword calluses catching on the day's stubble. "Stay. Please."

Matthew drew a breath and released it again before he nodded, resisting the urge to lean into Duncan's warmth. _Leaving would grant Samuels the battle and the victory, I suppose. Bad enough I lost my temper. One point to him._ "The guest room upstairs, then?"

Duncan nodded. "I need to find clean sheets and show Ad-- Ben where everything is." He smiled abruptly, transformed from handsome to beautiful. "And none of that's your problem, Matthew. You look like you've been tense all day. Finish that and get a shower. I'll be there in time to get your back."

"Are we a problem?" Matthew murmured, still watching Duncan.

That drew a puzzled frown that slowly shaded to worry. "No. We're not. Who did you think I was making up the guest room for?"

Matthew shook his head and finally said ruefully, "A long day, Duncan, and I'm not thinking so straight as I could be." The gumbo was too good to let go to waste, and Matthew knew full well that hot food would help as much as coffee just now. "Go on. Get," he paused, reaching for something neutral, and settled on, "your friend settled."

Duncan paused, frowning as he debated something, but he finally nodded. "I'll be back down, Matthew."

It didn't sound as reassuring as Duncan had undoubtedly intended.

<> <> <>

Methos followed Duncan upstairs and went straight to the cedar armoire without even having to ask where spare linens were kept. Duncan had stored them here in Seacouver, too; the doors on either side of the armoire stood open, exposing a bathroom and bedroom to view, as he'd expected. "Getting predictable, Duncan?"

Duncan threw a down comforter to him. Fabric puffed out around Methos' hands as an edge slipped away from him to trail to the ground. Methos gathered up the amber cloud rather than trip over it.

"Since when am I Duncan? And what's your problem with Matthew?"

"Who said we have a problem?" Methos followed him down the hallway, trailing linens behind him as he looked around at the carefully refinished and repainted rooms. He didn't recognize quite a bit of the art. Either Duncan had been laying out a great deal of money in the last couple years or he'd raided a previously sacrosanct stash.

Duncan pointed to the last door on the left. "The bathroom's through here. Towels in that cabinet and toiletries in the other one. I'm assuming you didn't bring any, anyway." Duncan came back around to his prior topic. "And you and Matthew do have a problem. He wasn't that angry the last time I saw him pull a sword on someone."

"Oh, that." Methos shrugged and dumped the sheets onto a chair. He let an aggrieved note into his voice to see what Duncan would say. "He's the one who always costs me identities." He stripped the blanket and pillows from the bed to start making it.

Duncan tugged the blinds closed, head momentarily cocked to the left as he listened to the rain pounding outside. "I'd better check the supply of candles and bottled water. Odd. It doesn't usually do this in June...." He shifted back to the previous subject remorselessly. " 'He started it?' According to you, I cost you your identity with the Watchers. Are these ever your fault? And where's your bag?"

"Of course they're never my fault. My bag's downstairs by the couch. I don't suppose you'd make more coffee? Yours always comes out better."

Duncan came to help with the bed. "Not until I get Matthew settled, no. After, maybe, if you want to stay up and talk. Although I'd say you need less caffeine right now, not more."

They worked together with the quick precision of practice, and Methos commented casually, "This always goes faster with two." He pulled the comforter up over the sheets and smiled. "Of course, any number of things go better with two."

"Dancing?" Duncan asked. "Arguments? Bicycles built for?" Confusion slowed his words down towards the end of the list and Duncan stopped his restless straightening of the blanket to watch Methos.

The pillow was being stubborn about going into the pillowcase, and Methos reached in to shift the corner into place. "So is he Connor's lover or yours? Didn't you two fight over Carl Robinson?"

Duncan looked thoroughly startled by that idea and sounded even more incredulous. "Not like that, no. Matthew? Connor's lover? Have you ever heard them argue?"

Methos smiled slowly and took his time looking Duncan up and down, pausing appreciatively over the extra muscle displayed by the fit of his slacks and the still damp curls exposing his nape to the air... and teeth. "Your hair looks good short. I've heard a lot of people argue, Duncan. What is Matthew of Salisbury doing with a key to your house?"

"Are you asking me why he has a key, Me-- Ben, or why you don't?" Duncan frowned at him. "You're the one who vanished after O'Rourke."

Methos hummed a noncommittal sound, studying Duncan thoughtfully. The Highlander was flushed, confused, annoyed, and finally noticing flirtations. About time. Methos smiled at him, lazy and knowing; the smile only widened with the color spreading across Duncan's face. He'd make his point later. "Weren't you going to go deal with Matthew?"

Aroused or not, Duncan's mind was still working. "You're changing the subject."

"And you're running out of time. He didn't look likely to stay awake much longer."

Duncan growled something that sounded both obscene and unfamiliar; it made Methos regret he hadn't spent more time on North American tribal languages. Duncan threw him a pillow neatly in its case and stalked out, calling over his shoulder, "This discussion isn't over."

"Oh, definitely not. Do try to use the right name around Salisbury."

"Yeah, well, try remembering that his name is McCormick, why don't you?"

Methos gave him the last word for the pleasure of watching him leave: both for the view and for the fun if Duncan turned back. Unfortunately, he didn't.

Yet.

<> <> <>

Matthew leaned against the wall, head cushioned on forearms folded in front of him, and let hot water beat down onto his shoulders and neck. He was breathing more steam than air, but that didn't bother him -- he'd never have done so well in Louisiana summers if it did. Duncan had put in one of the tankless water heaters, which meant Matthew didn't have to worry the hot water would run out suddenly. He was taking full advantage of that.

The tiles were warm under his feet and not quite cool against his arms. His muscles were slowly beginning to unknot in the heat and comfort of the beating water. A memory was nagging at him and it was important, but Matthew already knew it would show up at its convenience, not his. Aggravating, that. Almost as aggravating as Samuels, or Dawson, or whatever the hell his name was this year. Joe might well be less than amused by the new name; Duncan was surely right about that. It ought to be entertaining to overhear. Possibly even educational, between Joe's time in the Marine Corps and touring in bars. _Across many countries and at least three continents, I'd think. I'll have to mention that to see how long it takes him to track the quote down and threaten my bourbon supply again._

Steam billowed and curled around him, and Matthew turned his head just enough to be sure it wasn't Samuels who'd come through the door. A slow smile pulled the corners of his mouth up. He knew that line of shoulder to hip very well.

Even as a silhouette through a fogged shower door, Duncan stripping clothes off was well worth watching. Matthew was still leaning against the wall, water pouring down through his hair and along his back, when Duncan stepped into the shower. Duncan chuckled, a low, amused sound that made Matthew wish he had more energy. "Close your eyes and stay there, why don't you? You don't look ready to move yet."

"Mmm. Going to have to take a day off, get one of these installed in my house." The words might be comprehensible through his arms; Matthew wasn't sure it mattered. Duncan's hands were in his hair, rubbing shampoo through and stripping tension out of his scalp. Coherent thoughts were quickly sliding away into a dangerous mixture of pleasure and fatigue.

Duncan chuckled, either at Matthew's words or the groans he couldn't suppress. "You haven't managed to take a day off since you moved here. And you say I work too much?" Strong, soapy hands traveled down Matthew's shoulders to his back, digging into knots that had been there so long Matthew'd almost forgotten them in the clamor of newer aches. "Did you stay up all night again?"

"Informant called in a tip about four yesterday morning. Useful of him, but the warrants and arrests and interviews took until ten last night, and paperwork ate the rest of the night. Then I had agents testifying in another case this morning and we had to break an alibi by this evening or release our suspects from yesterday." Matthew shook his head and sighed at just how much more easily his neck was moving now. "You're entirely too good at that."

"A lot of practice," Duncan told him, and his grin carried clearly into the words. "Hold your breath."

Matthew let Duncan's hands pull him under the spray until the shampoo was out and gone. A gentle push shifted Matthew back to his original position, leaning on his folded arms and promising himself he'd either finish cleaning himself off or give up and get out in just another minute....

He hadn't quite managed either when Duncan knelt behind him, ostensibly still washing him, but really using that as an excuse to rub his way up Matthew's legs, and between them. Matthew only smiled and shifted enough to give him better access. Moving was starting to seem more attractive, but he still hadn't gotten to it by the time Duncan stood up and grasped his shoulders to turn him around. Duncan began rubbing shaving cream up Matthew's throat and along his cheeks, removing any chance for him to comment without getting a mouthful of soap.

"Feel free to keep your eyes closed. I doubt you'll fall asleep during this." The smugness in Duncan's tone made it very clear he was enjoying having the upper hand, but the careful precision of his touch said he was as interested in pampering as seduction  
.

Besides which, he was much more awake than Matthew, who'd been trying vainly to remember where either of them kept a safety razor in the bathroom. Using a straight razor while he was this tired was folly, even for an immortal. Letting Duncan use one on him was, any other time, more like foreplay. _Maybe even this time. Duncan's right. I don't believe I'll have any trouble staying awake through this,_ Matthew realized. _Sleeping after he's finished may be another matter._

Duncan settled in along Matthew's side, one hand tangling into Matthew's hair to expose his throat to the razor he unfolded with a flick of his other wrist. Duncan's weight pinned Matthew against the tiles, and he was straddling Matthew's thigh as well; in combination with the blade, Matthew suddenly had reasons to hold still beyond mere tiredness. Duncan's grin carried into his voice -- and Matthew wasn't sure he wanted to know the cause for that insouciant mischief -- as he mentioned, "Sorry to keep you awake."

Duncan's cheerful insincerity drew an answering smile from Matthew, one that vanished as a thin line of metal, barely cooler than his skin, traced a slow path up a tendon, clearing soap from collarbone to jaw.

Matthew froze. From his shoulders down, muscles barely moved beyond the necessities of breathing. Every other muscle, collarbone to scalp, seemed to relax instantly as his subconscious went straight from 'Metal' to 'Sharp' to 'Do not twitch.' It took Duncan's soft chuckle to let Matthew realize that the small, rapturous noises echoing off the tiles were coming from his own throat.

"Try to hold still," Duncan murmured, voice very close to Matthew's ear, and Matthew only then realized that he'd never opened his eyes, even knowing that Duncan had a blade that sharp near his throat. Duncan was leaning in against him, slick with soap and water, solid with muscle, and as hard as Matthew -- who suspected he knew exactly when he'd gone from 'too tired to get it up with a crane' to 'rigid enough for building code specs.'

He wasn't about to move.

He didn't have to, in any case. All Matthew had to do was let Duncan shift him as he saw fit. The metal of the razor blade was as warm as his skin now, warmer at the start of each stroke where the heat of the rinse water had transferred to it, trailing cool air behind it as it left exposed skin along its path. Duncan's hand cradled the back of his head, silently aligning him into each new angle. Almost the only sounds were the spray of water on their bodies, the soft, near-inaudible scrape of the razor along his skin, and the slow hiss of Duncan's breath that matched the equally slow strokes of the blade.

Almost.

Each time the blade lifted off his jaw, Matthew intended to stay silent, and each time his temporary release drew embarrassingly eager noises. It was moan or move, and even with his eyes closed, he knew there was a razor coming back towards his throat in someone else's hand. The lines of pressure should have drawn panic. Instead, they were drawing pleasure, trails of it overlapping as the razor's edge slid along heat-sensitized skin until every nerve felt like it was exposed and purring.

When Duncan finally finished his throat and moved up to his face, Matthew still didn't dare twitch. The feel of the blade over his face should have been less intense than metal over his throat -- he'd never met an immortal yet who wasn't susceptible to blades or teeth there -- but the nerves along his neck were still humming with tension and exposure. Matthew was so still he could feel how the trail of water ran down his cock onto Duncan's thigh, how Duncan's cock felt hotter against his skin than the water falling between them. Beads of water built up on his collarbone, on his nipples, along the faint line that marked an old, mortal, break of his sternum -- built up and slid down, marking their own trails along his nerves.

Duncan slid the razor along the last, short strip of foam above Matthew's upper lip and pulled the blade away. Before Matthew could gather himself together, while he was trying to control the noises he was making, Duncan let go of his nape and slid down him in a controlled descent that trailed one hand down Matthew's chest. The other hand, however, traced something warm and slick and hard down Matthew's spine. Part of him knew the razor had to be folded and safe again. The more paranoid part of his mind froze him in place again with the memory that the razor didn't have a latch....

Then Duncan's mouth wrapped around the head of his cock, wet and hot and skilled, and moving wasn't an option, but holding still was going to be impossible. Matthew let his head fall back against the wall, his hands coming up to tangle in Duncan's hair. Wet strands slid along Matthew's palms as that slick mouth slid along his cock. He wasn't allowed to move more than his hands, apparently -- the razor case pressed firmly against his back in a silent warning -- but that didn't matter when Duncan was devouring him like this, fast and deep, fucking his mouth on Matthew's cock.

It was a very short stretch of eternity before he came.

<> <> <>

Warmth, softness, comforting weight of blankets along his side, a bed to himself that wasn't his but was almost as familiar... Matthew didn't have to wake completely to reach out his right hand and find his gun on the nightstand. He ran a thumb across the safety, reassuring himself that it was on, and subsided back under the blankets again, fingertips tracing his badge case as they retreated. His left hand burrowed under the pillow, the pads of his fingers brushing over the hilt of a concealed dagger. Weapons found, he sagged back towards sleep.

His hair was damp enough to be pleasurably cool but water wasn't running into his eyes. His bones were gone, his muscles past pleasantly exhausted and well into limp, and his nerves were humming with satisfaction. He didn't know how he'd gotten into the bed, but he could tell that very good sex lay on the other end of his memories. Later would be soon enough to remember.

A body settled next to him. The bed creaked under the additional weight and a small part of Matthew's mind identified the scent and feel as Duncan. Warmth caressed Matthew's cheek, but he was already drifting down and didn't bother making sense of the words that accompanied the touch. The tone promised safety, and sleep, and company somewhere along the way. That was enough.

The click of the door latch slipping into place pulled Matthew partway into consciousness again, his instincts wary of danger with an insistence he knew better than to fight. Duncan's voice rumbled through the door, low and amused. Who was he talking to?

A lighter voice answered, male and laced with self-mockery and seduction simultaneously -- known and not particularly safe. Matthew tried to fight the exhaustion that lay over his thoughts like fog.

_Cold wrap of fog, warmth and safety of bed, warm/hard flash of Duncan pinning him, grinding tiredness of too long without sleep, a flash of irritation that was an old adversary, edged, biting humor of Joe's probable reaction to the bastard using Joe's name--_

Matthew woke abruptly as the elusive memory finally came clear, body still and tight again despite Duncan's earlier efforts. There'd been fog then, too, and a warm bed... but he'd pinned Duncan, not the other way around, and lain sprawled across him in a townhouse in Charleston, listening to rain drip off the eaves and discussing what was between them other than two very good nights. Immortal memory, as much a curse as a blessing, replayed Duncan's soft, rueful laugh and his answer: "I thought I was lonely for Adam."

Matthew matched that memory to the earlier conversation and the easy amusement as Duncan asked, "Adam, have you got someplace to stay or were you planning on taking over my couch again?" and wished, not for the first time, that he wasn't so prone to solving puzzles.

 _I'd been wondering what damn fool vanished so thoroughly that Duncan couldn't find him to see if he wanted a lover as well as a friend. I should be more careful what questions I ask of Fate._ His sense of humor failed him there, falling silent against implications that might or might not be accurate.

Matthew rolled over and forced himself to listen to the rain outside the window, to the soft creaks and tocks of the house settling in the coolness of the night, to the soft rasp of cotton sheet moving across cotton pillowcase as he breathed in and out with a careful, steady monotony and began to force his circling thoughts into stillness and rest. He needed sleep before he could consider how much might have changed, or where. His personal life had just gotten more complicated, but work tomorrow would be barely simpler than today, and that only if he was lucky.

Ben Dawson and the question of Duncan's reactions to him were matters for tomorrow. Of course, so was cleaning his gun after the steam in the shower.

<> <> <>

Duncan eased the door closed and heard Methos say, "I didn't think he had the energy to be that restless?"

"Obviously you don't think. If you did, you'd have called so I'd have a room ready," Duncan pointed out, turning to grin at him. He paused, eyes flicking over Methos' clothes and the familiar, near-smirking cant to his lips. It'd been too long.... "What are you doing in San Francisco? Decided you needed free time and money to get up to mischief?"

"Amanda can be very persuasive." Methos -- _Ben_ , Duncan reminded himself -- chuckled and turned away. "More so than you, apparently. There's coffee downstairs."

Duncan stared at him, then said, "You came up to tell me that? There was coffee in the pot when I came upstairs."

Methos turned back, a half-smile on his mouth and deviltry in his voice. He cocked a hip to lean against the wall and settled his thumbs in his pockets which left his fingers curved tantalizingly near the placket. Duncan forced himself to watch his face and try to think as Methos asked lazily, "What else would I be here to tell you, Duncan?"

Duncan snorted at that, annoyance suddenly overlaying the warmth of Methos' company, and that was familiar too. "Let's start with why you're suddenly calling me Duncan instead of MacLeod?"

Methos chuckled. "It's your name?" Methos looked him over, from his feet (bare in his own house), up over old jeans (varnish-stained from working on the store), to the pale gold cashmere sweater that Duncan had owned for so long that it had gotten a little snug.

Methos just smiled. "Your hair looks good short. And you've put on some muscle since Paris. San Francisco styles suit you. I can't say I'm surprised by that. "

Duncan frowned, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of his sweater. When he looked up again, Methos had moved forward to stand not even an arm's length away. He didn't back up, but that was sheer stubbornness. "No, Ben. What's really going on?"

"I like the hair, too. The ponytail was good, but short like this...." Methos ran a hand along the side of his neck, fingers curling around to cradle the nape as he laughed softly. He was standing closer than he had all night, closer than he'd been since Duncan talked to him after O'Rourke's death. He chuckled and leaned in, abandoning words in favor of whispers of breath along Duncan's mouth and wisps of touch along his neck and shoulders, convincing even through the fabric of his sweater.

Persuasive, those whispers, past any need of words. Duncan's back was against the wall and his hands were on Methos' arms, gripping and kneading as Methos kissed him until his lips parted, and his mouth opened. Hard muscle against him, a leg between his, desire roused and reminding Duncan that he hadn't taken his own pleasure in the shower--

That thought reminded him of the shower and the company he'd had in it.

Duncan tightened his hands around Methos' arms and pushed him back: a few inches rather than the couple steps he'd intended, but enough to let cool air between them. It should have been more but Methos didn't want to go and Methos was rarely forced away from something he really wanted. Duncan shoved that thought aside, along with momentary flashes of pulling Methos closer.... None too steady in voice or balance, he still managed to murmur, "Methos."

Methos cocked his head sideways to study him. The tip of his tongue appeared, swiping across his lips, before he smiled, wicked enough to make Duncan feel young and gauche for a too-long moment. One hand lifted, fingers stroking along Duncan's mouth, thumb rubbing along moisture left by his tongue, the flush left by his actions. "We can talk in the morning, Duncan."

Duncan just stared at him, too warm under his hand and inside his clothes, too cool in the rest of his skin, and wondering what the hell had just happened. "What was that about?" Another moment of gathering scattered thoughts, then he said, "Other than the obvious."

Methos considered him, eyes dark, intent, and full of plans. "Nothing that can't wait." His thumb continued to caress Duncan's cheek.

"It's not that late," Duncan pointed out, clinging to practicalities as he reached for his balance. "And you said there's coffee."

Methos shook his head, lips curving and secretive as an Etruscan statue. Duncan locked his hands into fists rather than reach out and touch him. Methos glanced down at his fists, then back up, and Duncan realized even that simple act was provocative and too damn tempting.

"Ah." Methos looked back up, gaze lingering along the way, then said, "Just pointing out possibilities, Duncan." Methos turned away, his fingers trailing off Duncan's face in individual lines of heat. "My bed's calling. Good night."

"Your timing… so is the coffee," Duncan managed to remind him, laughing despite himself at the absurdity of it all.

"Ah, but the bed's good for hours of bliss. And this is San Francisco; I can find you more good coffee." Methos chuckled. "Sleep well, Duncan."

Duncan watched him go, admiring the way the corduroy accented the length of his leg and the sweater displayed rather than concealed the breadth of shoulder. Duncan ran his thumb along his lips and realized he wasn't sure which touch he was craving, Methos' mouth or Matthew's skin. Left with that unsettling thought, Duncan shook his head and went downstairs to distract himself with cleaning up the kitchen. That, at least, was easily set to order.

The rest of the coffee went down the drain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> **Note well: Cliffhanger ahoy!**  
> 
> 
> If you don't deal well with these, check the front note on next week's chapter. Next chapter up on Dec. 18; final chapter so far up on Dec 26. Some of this will be resolved by the end of December, okay?

_Chicago BluesTuesday, June 22, 1999_

Duncan arrived at the back of the bar in time to see Dave, one of Joe's more reliable bartenders, helping a truck driver unload crates of supplies onto the loading dock. Duncan checked to be sure the back door was braced open and the two lunch waitresses weren't swamped yet before he came back out with the dolly to start bringing in already-unloaded cases.

Twenty minutes later, Duncan wrestled the last box into the storage room and nearly collided with Dave, who gave him a puzzled look and asked, "Any idea how late Joe's going to run?"

Duncan shook his head. "I didn't know he was busy this morning. I was wondering how you ended up on the morning shift."

"Joe called and asked if I could come handle set-up and opening, something about an unexpected meeting this morning that might run late. What the hell, you know? Overtime is overtime. But he said he'd be in by noon to let me get lunch."

Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Well, the meeting wasn't with me. Come on. I'll cover you for a lunch break. If Joe hasn't made it in by then, I'll swing by his apartment and check on him."

"Hey, he's got a cell phone," Dave pointed out and pulled out his. He punched in the number, waited, and finally left a message of, "Hey, Joe, it's Dave. Call me at the bar when you get this. Thanks." He gave Duncan a rueful look. "If he's fine, he's going to accuse us of being mother hens."

"Only if we call half a dozen times." Duncan added lightly, "An old friend of ours got into town last night. They might just be running late at a bookstore. Come on, I'll get the bar, let you get lunch."

Dave gave him a very old-fashioned look over his glasses. "You know, you could just say you're worried?"

Duncan managed a smile. "You're how far off from your Ph.D.? Is this cheating?"

"I graduate in December, and I think Joe pulled some strings, too; the VA hired me for a psych intern program. And yeah, I'm a little worried too, Duncan, but he's only an hour late. Traffic alone could do that." He didn't sound as confident as the words should have, but Dave went back to the lunch rush.

They both kept watch on the doors.

By one-thirty, Joe still hadn't shown up.

In between pulling beers for some businessmen escaping a boring seminar, Duncan asked Dave, "When did Joe call you?"

"Last night," Dave said. "Why? Heading over there?"

Duncan nodded. "Yeah. He should have called by now." His phone rang and Duncan muttered, "Speak of the devil--"

"Hardly a fit greeting, Duncan." Methos was purring with amusement. "What would you say to--"

Duncan cut over him. "Have you seen Joe this morning?"

The laughter vanished out of Methos' voice. "No. Should I have?"

"He said he had a meeting this morning, but he hasn't made it to work. He's not answering his phone either. I was hoping he was meeting you."

"Not me. It could be anything," Methos pointed out, "including a late shift coinciding with too many meds last night. That storm can't have done his legs any good. Of course, it could also be his employers… or one of our acquaintances. I'll meet you at his place."

Duncan nodded. "Good. If it's just a bad day, I'll want the help yelling at him."

"You'll get it." Methos hung up.

Duncan just told Dave, "I'll call later when I know something."

Dave gave him a worried glance. "Yeah. Do that. Or get Joe to." He pulled out his phone and tried Joe's number again.

Oakland FBI office

The courier was waiting patiently in the reception room, reading a battered copy of _The Epic of Gilgamesh_. College age, long-distance runner lean, olive-toned skin, black hair striped blue and purple. He'd also focused in on his book in the five minutes it had taken Matthew to extricate himself from his phone call.

He walked in, said, "I'm Matthew McCormick," and held a hand out for the clipboard.

The young man nodded to him, glanced at the name and photo on his lanyard, and passed over the envelope on the clipboard instead. "Sorry for the trouble, Agent. The client specified delivery in person."

Matthew took the envelope, frowning a little when he didn't pass the clipboard with it. "In person, but no signature required?"

"No." The courier shrugged, but puzzlement tightened his mouth, too. "That is kind of weird now that you say that."

Matthew nodded. "Half a minute more." He examined the envelope, noting the lack of a return address, and slit it open. The sole content was a locker key attached to a machine-printed tag. "No. Nothing I was expecting." He looked back at the young man. "Did you get a name?"

Now he looked worried and uncomfortable. "Um, no. And he paid in cash."

"Before you go, I'll need a description, then. Have a seat." Matthew indicated the couch he'd just left and pulled out a notepad and pen.

"I'm not under arrest, right?"

Matthew shook his head. "No, you're not, Mister…?"

"Abascal, Xiang Abascal." He spelled it for Matthew and pulled out his wallet to show him a driver's license without being asked.

Matthew checked the photo, memorizing his address and license number in the process, then handed it back. "Thank you. I'm afraid I need a description of the person who hired you in case this leads to something we don't like. Seeing as there's no return address on this envelope, I'd have to say there's a chance."

Xiang sighed. "Damn. Right." He closed his eyes to think about it, then started talking. "Male, Caucasian, and I'd say he's not mixed blood of any kind. Medium-short brown hair, no curl to it, parted off to the right. I have no idea what color his eyes were. About your height, and meat market arms -- one of the guys who does way too much time in the gym to get dates, you know?" Xiu opened his eyes for a moment. "Seriously. Biceps almost the size of my thighs, or maybe a little bigger."

Matthew nodded. "I know the type you mean. Go on, please."

Xiang closed his eyes again. "Blue jeans, dark-washed and not worn yet, dark green short sleeve shirt with a collar -- business casual. I don’t remember seeing a logo. Expensive running shoes, Nikes, maybe. He pulled his wallet out of his left hip pocket, not his right. I remember thinking that was kind of unusual. No tattoos that I saw, no scars… no, wait." He frowned, eyes still closed but flicking back and forth behind the eyelids as if he were examining his memory. His frown deepened but he finally said, "I'm sorry. There's something more that I can't quite pull up."

Xiang opened his eyes and shrugged. "But there was something a little… off about him, you know? One of those guys where the smiles don't quite match what's going on in the conversation. Like he's talking to you but writing a play in his head at the same time or something. Just weird." After a moment's pause, he added, "Okay. Not just weird. He was creepy. That's why I didn't think to get the address or his name. He was really disturbing, but he paid me in cash, a good fifty bucks over what the charge should have been, and told me to keep the change. I'm sorry, Agent, but I need the money and I wanted away from him."

Matthew nodded. "With the costs of textbooks, I surely can't blame you. I'm sorry to have to ask, but can you be more precise than 'creepy'?" He raised one hand before Xiang could draw a breath to argue. "I'm not saying you're wrong, Mr. Abascal. I suspect you're entirely right. But can you verbalize what in particular set off your alarms?"

Xiang studied him for a moment. "You actually mean that. Okay. Maybe. It's not that I’m crazy vain, but you know," and he smiled a little, "bike shorts tend to get looks. You looked when you came in, and you… I don't know, filed it as what I was wearing or something and went right back to looking me In the eyes. He looked and it was… it wasn't sex. It wasn't my fashion sense, or my job, or did he want to ask me out. But it was…."

He trailed off thinking about it, then frowned. "I don't know. He looked, he saw, but I couldn't tell you what he saw." Xiang thought about that a moment longer and didn’t quite shiver by sheer force of will. "I don't think I want to know what he was seeing, if you want the truth. But that's when I got nervous."

"And that's when he started pulling out cash?" Matthew asked.

"Yeah." Xiang looked up. "He saw I was nervous?"

"It sounds like it, yes." Matthew kept his voice calm, soothing. "Did he have any accent, or any mannerisms you noticed? Anything more you can tell me to track him down?"

"He sounds like half a million guys in the area, doesn't he?" Xiang gave Mattehw an apologetic shrug. "I'm sorry. There wasn't…" He paused again, then said, "No, wait. When he'd start smiling at… something else? He'd run his thumb along the base of his fingers. Like this." He showed Matthew, left thumb brushing along his palm, just under the bottom finger joints.

Matthew frowned at that, wondering why the mannerism was familiar. "I can see why you'd notice that. And your description's quite good, Mr. Abascal, thank you. You're using your left hand. Did he use his left, his right, both?"

"Left," he said. "Same hand he pulled the wallet with."

Matthew nodded. "Thank you. Last question, I think: Where and when did he meet you?"

"San Francisco, about a block from the Embarcadero BART exit, at 11:10." He checked his clipboard to be sure of the time. "Yeah. 11:10 is when I put him down. Call it 11:05 he flagged me down. I was on my way up to Stern & Baer to pick up some papers. They prefer to use couriers in town."

"San Francisco to Oakland, with another job in hand?" Matthew asked, interested. "Did he want his package brought first, out of the way or not?"

"I didn't tell him. Stern & Baer are regular customers, so when he asked when I could get your envelope here, I factored in their delivery before I gave him a time. I delivered their papers on my bike, then doubled back to the ferry and came here. Does that matter?"

"It might," Matthew said. "It might not." He wrote his last few notes and said simply, "Thank you. If I need this formally, I'll get in touch." He pulled out a business card, wrote his cell number on the back, and handed it to him. "If you think of anything else, please call me."

Xiang took it, tucked it carefully away in his belt pouch, and was already turning to go when Matthew asked, "Mr. Abascal. Did he have any chance to get your name?"

"No, I--" He stopped, frowning and concentrating hard. Matthew would have expected a single woman to understand immediately; Xiang caught on quickly enough that he’d had trouble himself or known someone who did. "I didn't have my ID out, my name's not on the clipboard… I don't think so." He looked much more wary now. "You are worried about this guy."

"Most people don't send anonymous packages to the FBI," Matthew pointed out. "Be more careful than usual for a few days. Just in case."

Xiang frowned, his face gone tight. "Yeah. That guy didn't tip me nearly enough for this."

Joe's apartment

Duncan's skin prickled at the feel of another immortal as he came through the lobby door. However, after a night under the same roof with Methos, he knew precisely who it was. That knowledge was the only thing that kept his hand away from the escrima stick under his jacket.

He just walked up to Joe's door and pulled out the spare key.

Methos moved away from the door, answering questions Duncan hadn't asked yet. "No answer to the doorbell and the lock's scratched. It looks new?"

"He upgraded the lock when he moved in, so it's all of four months old," Duncan said and opened the door.

"Hopefully this place isn't rented?" Methos asked, prowling in right behind Duncan. He split left, stepping over a book lying open on the ground between the entry and the small kitchen. "Someone's been here."

Duncan just nodded. Joe never left anything where he could trip over it or have to wheel a chair around it. He crouched down and ran a hand over the carpet by the front door. The carpet was still faintly damp, with a small pebble in place. "Whoever it was came in after the rain started last night but before the streets dried."

He moved to pick up the book, checking the title from habit, and put _The Knight in History_ down on the kitchen counter-top. A few coffee grounds were scattered near the sink; the pot sat empty and cool in the coffeemaker. "And no, it's not rented. Joe bought it; he didn't want anyone having a master key to his place unless he gave it to them."

"Whoever did this was decent with locks, then. That's a good brand." Methos moved through the living room to rattle the patio door -- locked -- then ransacked Joe's easy chair for anything hidden beside or under the cushion.

Duncan went through the kitchen, studying the counter, the stove, the oven, the contents of the refrigerator. No extra cup or glass to indicate Joe had let someone in, dinner plate and pot in the drainer. Nothing odd left where it shouldn't be, no bloodstains on the floor. The coffeemaker was loaded, the carafe empty. "The coffee wasn't started. That or Joe refilled it afterward. But there aren't any breakfast dishes out yet, and the dinner dishes are still in the rack."

He headed towards the bedroom. The light-blocking curtains were pulled into place, but books lay scattered on the floor there, too, and the bed hadn't been made. Joe must not have been up long when he was surprised, then, or he hadn't been up at all yet. Duncan looked around again, then frowned. Shouldn't Joe's wheelchair be neatly tucked away beside the bedside table? His prosthetics weren't on the bookshelf by the bed, either.

Duncan looked around again, trying to take in the details first then going over it again to look for the patterns. He frowned, forehead tight with worry, when he realized that the scattered books weren't completely random: there was enough room between them for a wheelchair.

The closet didn't look ransacked; neither did the drawers. Duncan had helped Joe home a few times when bad storms had aggravated his joints, but he just didn't know enough about Joe's routines. Methos, on the other hand, had stayed with Joe in Seacouver and Paris both. Duncan raised his voice to be heard in the next room. "You've stayed with Joe before -- should I be looking for a sleep shirt?"

"Not this time of year. And Joe never refills the coffeemaker until he's going to bed. Says he's night owl enough as it is. At a guess, whoever took him came in late last night or first thing this morning," Methos said. He appeared in the doorway, looking the room over and asked, "Where's his chair?"

"Not in here. Neither are his legs."

Methos prowled over and started ransacking the bed, checking pillows and sheets before making the bed back up almost absently. He started to put a pillow back, then pulled it up to his face instead, inhaling deeply before putting it back down gently.

Duncan looked over from sorting books back; they'd been on a shelf about arm-level in a wheelchair. His best guess was that Joe's arm had knocked them over, deliberately or otherwise. The lack of expression on Methos' face told him he'd found something else. "What am I not going to like?"

"The whole thing?" Methos asked. His light tone didn't hide a cold, controlled anger Duncan hadn't seen since Bordeaux. "There're spots of blood on the sheet and blanket -- drying, but not dry yet. There's also a damp patch on the fitted sheet and into the mattress. Again, still drying after however many hours. And the pillow smells like chloroform. The kidnapper left it wrong side down; his mistake. Any idea when Joe left last night?"

Duncan closed his eyes, thinking about the schedule. "He worked the closing shift last night. He shouldn't have gotten home until four this morning."

"It was still raining when I turned over at four," Methos said coldly. "If I were going to kidnap a man in a wheelchair, I wouldn't want witnesses."

"Joe made it in and into bed," Duncan pointed out. "Joggers and dog walkers are out by five, five-thirty. Not many at five, but it gets steadily worse from then. So far, this doesn't look like a robbery, or even an attempt to cover it with a robbery." He glanced around. "Time to check his office."

Methos nodded and opened the door into the other bedroom. "I'll get it. Check the bathroom."

Duncan ducked in to investigate and found the shower bone-dry, the razor clean and dry, the soap hard. He checked the medicine chest and found the prescription bottles for what Joe called his 'crap day' pain killer and the daily anti-inflammatory that Joe had, reluctantly, started taking.

Methos called, "Involuntary, Duncan."

Duncan left the bathroom behind to join him in the office, barely glancing at the shelves. The books here were in place, which somehow surprised him. Joe's guitar hung safely in its case on the wall, the desk didn't look any worse than Joe's desk at the bar… and Methos was holding up Joe's keychain.

"No, Joe wouldn't have left here without those," Duncan agreed quietly. "Damn it."

"Does he walk anywhere here?" Methos glanced out the window at the angle of the hill.

"Yes, but if it's a matter of public transit, Joe prefers walking uphill. Says it's easier to keep control."

"Especially in the damp," Methos agreed. "But he'd still need his keys."

Duncan opened the guitar case, then turned back, his mouth a tight line. "And this." He held out Joe's wallet, bills still visible in the fold.

Methos just nodded. "Right. Look around for his phone and grab a change of clothes for when we find him. I'm going to break into his email. It might be Hunters."

"Or he might have been meeting a Watcher whose immortal had just moved to town," Duncan agreed and went back to work.

Embarcadero Ferry Terminal

It might just have been adrenaline that made the ferry trip feel longer than usual. Maybe.

Last night's storm had made the morning fog thicker than usual; now the afternoon was fogging in sooner too. The ferry plowed through water above and water below, rising and falling on waves, sliding into curtains of fog and the occasional gap of clear air. Only the light and incline changes told Matthew they were still moving.

Too much adrenaline and too little sleep on top of that left Matthew incapable of immersing himself in his current reading. Sleep would be a worse idea, at this stage; he wouldn't stay asleep and the dreams weren't likely to do him any good. He finally tucked _The Art of Happiness_ into this coat and walked forward to the mostly abandoned rail to let the fog's chill wake him up.

Waves slapped against the hull steadily, barely audible over the ferry's engine. Fog horns wove in and out of the water sounds and the cries of the gulls overhead. Matthew wouldn't have been able to navigate by their notes yet but the ferry's steady motion told him the pilot could. He tried to let that settle him away from worrying at what he was going to find in a ferry station locker.

There was no point wasting the energy when he was going to find out soon enough.

Better to save his concern for problems he could possibly sort out now. Work was settled for the moment, although it had taken him an hour to clear the rest of his day. More than that, his warning that he might be out for the rest of the day had gotten first a very surprised look from his secretary, then an approving one. He tucked away for later the problem that even his assistant thought he'd been overworking.

Unfortunately, that only gave him time to worry at the reappearance of 'Ben Dawson.' (Joe really was going to kill Samuels for that name. And possibly kill him again if he inherited money from the man.) The worst of it, at least for the moment, was that Matthew didn't even know what was unsettling him, although something surely was.

So what if Ben/Samuels had been flirting? That was entirely normal from him. Duncan's reaction to him, on the other hand… that had been too close to his reactions to Matthew in D.C. last winter.

Even immortal memory wasn't enough help when it came to comparing memories. Matthew already knew far too well that memories came filtered through whatever emotions he'd felt at the time. The question of whether something had been slightly off between him and Duncan that morning came with the corollary question of whether that skew had been on Duncan's side or Matthew's and Matthew just didn't know either answer.

They'd run together as usual in the early morning, traded out weights and partner stretches as usual, showered quickly since Matthew had to leave a little early, shared cooking and cleaning and the newspapers… and yet. Unbidden, Cory's worries about his relationship with Duncan came to mind, and Matthew realized he was pacing again despite the fog- and spray-slick deck.

"Damn it," Matthew muttered. "This isn't the time for this."

He could hear cars now through the fog. Echoes of the ferry's motor were starting to bounce back too. Matthew moved towards the pilot's house instead of the gangplank, lifting his FBI badge as he went. One of the crew members turned hastily away and Matthew let him, going onto another crew member who looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"One quick question, ma'am -- how badly is this fog likely to slow down transit as the day goes on?"

She was a solidly built Latina woman whose expression said she'd seen and coped with all kinds and levels of stupid. She nodded once. "Yeah, you're new in town all right. The fog keeps thickening like this, Agent, they're gonna have to shut the ferries down entirely in another two hours. I'd plan on car and bridge or the BART."

Matthew nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Thank you, ma'am." He turned and headed out, already wondering if he was going to have to call Duncan for a ride. He was also wondering if he should buy a motorcycle, which would be easier to work through San Francisco traffic. Cory would have advice if he did.

Matthew took in the ferry building's rough size as he came in, evaluating lines of sight, entrances and exits, the security cameras he could see, and where the security guards were circulating. The details gave him something to occupy his mind as he pulled on evidence gloves and hunted down locker B220, which turned out to be a bottom locker, big enough for a suitcase. Matthew checked the lock by eye, by fingers, and with a voltmeter he'd gotten out of his car before he headed this way. He found nothing.

When Matthew opened the door, the only thing the locker held was a large florist’s box, big enough for a double-dozen long-stem roses at least.

He considered the damned thing, a muscle ticking along the side of his jaw, and debated whether he needed to evacuate the building.

His instincts said it wasn't a bomb, not a literal one. Something nastier, Matthew suspected, and realized he was wishing desperately for a trained partner he'd known for more than a month and a half. He'd worked with a few of the Oakland agents before, but none of them for long enough for something as bad as this already felt. Part of him wanted Fox Mulder's eyes; the rest of him said Mulder would be a second disaster in this.

All of him wanted someone reliable at his back.

Hell.

The terminal was filling up with people trying to make a last trip out before the crush of rush hour, at the end of their classes, before the harbor-master shut the ferries down. Instinct wasn't good enough.

Matthew closed the locker again and took the key with him as he headed for the nearest security guard, a man already watching him closely with one hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Matthew exhaled some of his lingering tiredness, straightened his shoulders, and pulled out his badge to start things rolling.

~ ~ ~

Crane, the senior fireman, stood at Matthew's shoulder. His attention kept flicking back and forth between his guys, who were waiting in case they were needed, and the bomb squad, which was taking the box as seriously as Matthew had. He didn't look over but his voice was so quiet only Matthew could hear him. "My guys say we've got more FBI coming in. How much shit are you going to catch if this isn't a bomb?"

Matthew shrugged. "Technically, I'm senior enough I can't catch too much hell over this regardless. Realistically? Someone sent me that locker key and made damn sure it came to me, by name, without a sender’s name or return address. A bomb is the better of my options at this point."

Crane shook his head in disbelief. "There are people stupid enough to fuck with the Feds?"

"Oh, yes. The ones who think they're both smarter than we are and good enough not to give themselves away to routine." Matthew kept most of his attention on the controlled chaos as he explained, "I used to hunt serial killers and some of the bombers. Those types like playing games with law enforcement."

That got him a long measuring look and one sardonic comment: "No wonder you called out the bomb squad."

A deep voice from behind them asked, "You gentlemen sure you're far enough back?"

Matthew glanced over and nodded to the man whose arrival he'd been half-expecting for the last half-hour. Special Agent in Charge Jack Michaels ran the San Francisco and Oakland offices and right now, Matthew was wishing he knew the SAC better than seven weekly staff meetings and two 'meet the boss and get up to speed' dinners. Wishes and horses, unfortunately. Matthew straightened a little and said, "If it's dynamite, yes, sir, we're clear now it's out of the locker. If it's C4 in that box, we could lose the whole building."

Michaels stood there studying him, tall and solid in a three-piece suit that still looked impeccable despite the fact that he'd undoubtedly been at work for eight hours already. Matthew knew that by now his own jacket was rumpled, as usual. He didn't have to run a hand over his face to know that he needed a shave again, also normal for him by mid-afternoon.

"At which point shrapnel might still get us?" Michaels nodded. "We'll hope it's not, then. Found trouble already, McCormick?" He didn't sound angry yet; one or two staff meeting flare-ups told Matthew he was still reserving judgment.

Crane glanced between them and nodded to them. "Gentlemen. I'll just go check on my EMTs."

After he was out of earshot, Matthew laid out the change to his afternoon plans. "Courier brought me an envelope with a locker key in it and a computer-printed tag. No return address, the client paid in cash, and the sender tipped heavily when he realized he'd made the courier nervous. Addressed to 'Agent’ McCormick. I checked the lock on the locker, found no scratches, wires, or live current, and opened it. When I found the box, I called the bomb squad."

Michaels waited for the last of the data, then said, "And your conclusions?"

Matthew kept watching the bomb squad, who'd apparently made up their minds to open it. "I don't think it's a physical bomb, sir, but damn if I was going to be wrong about that at any place that processes this much traffic."

Michaels nodded. "Agreed. I'll back you on that, no matter what's in the box. That said, ASAC," and he watched to see that Matthew was paying attention to the title, "what do you think we've got, and what plans are you already considering?"

"I think we have body parts, God help us. The box is much too big just for photos or 'souvenirs.' I think we have a serial killer playing games," Matthew told him bluntly. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to get me here. Whoever he is, he's in very good shape, and he left that courier's skin crawling. I’ve warned the to watch his back, but I have no reason to think he’s a target."

His own words set off adrenaline and Matthew made himself take a deep breath against the raise in his heart rate. "Yet. No reason yet. The serial killer in Washington state, sir – how active are our leads?"

Michaels met his eyes. "That's not your case, ASAC."

Matthew lowered his voice. "The courier was male, lean, short black hair, and relatively pale, sir. How active are those leads?"

That got a nod. "Point taken. No. We don't think he's slipped through the net."

Matthew nodded. "Thank you." He rolled his shoulders up and back. "Almost a pity. We'd finally have a description, at least."

"A good one?" The SAC nodded. "How reliable did the courier seem?" Michaels was watching the bomb squad, too. "They've decided something."

The squad's posture and positioning moved from anticipation, to tension as someone opened the box… and changed to shock.

"Agent!"

Matthew didn't argue the title, just moved up to see what they'd found. Michaels headed over as well, leaving Matthew no choice but to answer his question. "I believed him. A jury would, too."

The SAC studied the folded, bloody artificial leg the bomb squad had found. "Looks like he was right to be nervous."

Matthew made himself ignore the blood marks to measure the prosthetic by eye, then nodded and told the bomb crew, "Thank you, gentlemen, lady. I'm sorry I had to call you out."

"Valid call," was all the team leader said. "Good luck, Agent."

SAC Michaels waved up the FBI agents he'd brought (San Francisco violent crimes, Matthew noticed; none of his white collar people) and told the police, "It looks like a kidnapping, gentlemen."

"Instead of a bomb?" one cop asked bluntly.

Matthew glanced at him and nodded. "They found a prosthetic leg, one of the newer models, blood on it. Too expensive for the owner to likely have a spare. So either we have someone recently deceased, or we have a kidnapping."

The cop kept looking at him, frowning now, and Matthew had time to read his name off his badge before Perez asked, "Agent, who do you know who's missing a leg?"

"That's a good question, ASAC." Michaels was watching him too. "The locker key came to you. What are the chances someone's making this personal?"

Matthew rubbed his forehead, calculations running through his brain. No matter how he looked at it, and he'd been looking at it from several directions while he watched the bomb squad work, he couldn't believe any immortal would be fool enough to address a challenge to him at the Bureau office. His home? Certainly. The office? No. "It's possible, sir. A friend of mine here in town left his legs in Vietnam. However, I haven't heard about the recent release of anyone I put away."

Perez said bluntly, "Call your friend. The box was sent to you. Sounds pretty fucking personal to me."

Matthew pulled out his phone before the SAC could argue and hit the speed dial for Joe's cell phone. First it went to voice mail, then the automated message informed him Joe’s voice mail was full. Matthew hung up and dialed the bar next, using the movement to cover his glance at SAC Michaels. He wasn't arguing yet, which might be promising.

As soon as the current bartender answered, Matthew said simply, "This is Matthew McCormick. Yes or no, is Joe Dawson there?"

A gusty sigh told him the answer before words made it out. "Oh, God. No, McCormick, Joe never showed for his shift today. Duncan and a friend are looking for him. Please say you haven't found a body."

"No, I haven't. All right. Expect someone by to ask questions, and make damn sure you check the badge with the precinct or the Bureau when they show up." Perez frowned at him; Matthew returned the frown and kept it out of his voice. "Other than that, stall anyone who asks and keep notes and description if they push too hard to suit you. Have Duncan call me if he comes in." Matthew hung up and looked at Perez. "If this is a serial killer playing games, he doesn't need to know how far along we are. Some of them like lurk around the edges of an investigation. A few of the madder ones have been known to pass themselves off as law enforcement assigned to the case ."

Michaels held up a hand and Matthew braced himself for the fight he'd hoped wouldn't be necessary. "If the victim's a friend of yours, McCormick, you can't be on this."

His SAC meant that to close the subject. Matthew ignored the hint.

"Granted, I have other responsibilities as White Collar ASAC, sir. That said, if this is a serial killer playing games, the three most experienced people on this coast are on loan up north, very busy inland, and me." Matthew laid the data out as matter-of-factly as possible. Letting emotion into this wouldn't help his case.

"And it's personal, McCormick. You've got the man on speed dial." Michaels shook his head. "No. We'll handle this one." He added much more quietly, "You're a target too. I know you've been pushing hard to get up to speed, but if there's someone after you, I need you to stay sharp enough to get me data."

Matthew just looked at him, hands in his pockets rather than let anyone see he kept clenching them into fists. "If I were the target, sir, I wouldn't have gotten a locker key. I'd have come out to a bomb under my car or a rigged gas line at my house. That would be if he wanted me dead. If he wanted me alive, I'd have gotten home to my friend hostage in my house or some attractive bait along the way. He's not treating me as a target, sir; he's issuing a challenge to another player. "

"Yes, it was your specialty, McCormick. I get that." Michaels had acquired a frown; the other agents around them were mostly staying neutral, but one of them caught Matthew's eye and tried to warn him off with a head-shake. "But you're not the only one who can hunt them."

Matthew rubbed his forehead tiredly and wished he'd been in San Francisco longer or just that the SAC knew him better. Might as well wish for horses, come to that, or some of his favorite seconds-in-command. What he wouldn't give for Thierry right now…. "Sir, I'm quite aware that a large enough group of agents always has someone who can cover anything. I'm not arguing with you because no one else can do this or because I’m trying to be a pain in the ass. I'm arguing with you because right now, the man's still challenging me to a game. If I decline to play? Then I'm a target -- just as soon as the bastard gets bored."

Matthew tried to rein his temper in, but he'd come this far, he might as well finish pointing out what he considered obvious. "At that point, he either tries to 'convince' me to play or he just kills me and challenges someone else. Either way, he's got a captive to take his irritations out on in the meantime."

Perez looked from Michaels, who was starting to look annoyed, to Matthew. "You think it's that personal?"

Matthew said dryly, "It was sent to the right name, wrong title, at the right office I’ve only been based at for two months. It’s far too likely that someone wants me and could care less that I've been promoted."

Perez brought one hand up in a peaceable, 'we're all allies here' gesture. "If it is a kidnapping, yeah, it's the FBI's baby. But why don't we start by getting some facts settled? Do you have confirmation your friend's gone, McCormick?"

"Joe didn't show up to work, he didn't call in, and one of his steady employees is worried frantic." Matthew kept his voice level. "Joe's reliable and the leg is the right height for him. If he's vanished, then he's missing. It just hasn't hit forty-eight hours yet, or a ransom demand, for anyone to be able to report it in."

Perez nodded. "You called twice, McCormick. His office, where else?"

"His cell phone. No answer and voice mail's full." Matthew looked at him. "Why?"

That got a shrug and Perez addressed his answer to Matthew and Michaels both. "Sounds like a kidnapping to us. A judge would probably think so too. Why not call for a warrant and track the current location of the guy's cell phone?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to the San Francisco fans for anything I've gotten wrong. I had to move the Northridge earthquake north to help, but Duncan's not wrong: it's damned hard to find a spot for a challenge in San Francisco!

San Francisco 

Duncan pulled up at the address Methos had gotten out of Joe's emails and looked around, evaluating the street and the buildings. It was a busy commercial warehouse and transport district, but a few of the buildings were still damaged from the earthquake five years earlier; the insurance money might have been held up, or property ownership contested for them to be battered this much later.

Methos barely waited for the car to stop before he was out and pulling on his coat. Duncan knew that pattern of arm and hand motions; Methos was checking the placement on his sword and the guns he'd 'acquired' from Joe's office. Duncan had been a little startled by how many guns Joe kept around as well as how easily Methos could find them.

It was an area that was simultaneously busy and impersonal; ideal for predators as soon as dark fell or maybe before. It worried Duncan enough that he pulled his police scanner out from under the driver's seat. He turned it on and put it on the roof while he pulled his coat on. One quick shrug dropped his katana properly into place. "And here I'd have said there was no place you could take a quickening inside San Francisco, Adam -- Ben. Did you find anything else in Joe's system?"

Methos' smile at the scanner was sharp and calculating enough for that mess in Bordeaux. That might also be exactly what they needed to get Joe out of this, so Duncan didn't say a word. He didn't back away, either.

Methos shrugged and said, "Quite a bit. And yes, bring the scanner. Keep the volume down, but it might be useful."

Duncan ignored his attempted distraction and the steady, routine commentary of dispatch and confirmation on the police scanner. "Why are we here, Ben?"

Methos gave him the long look that meant he was debating how to keep Duncan from exploding. Duncan gave him a glare to say they didn't have time for that now. Methos nodded. "Do you know Joe's current position in the Watchers?"

"I try not to ask. I end up arguing with him." Duncan waited, hands and scanner in his pockets now, as the breeze off the bay ruffled his hair.

"He's still your primary Watcher, Duncan, but he's not your main Watcher. Not because of his legs, but because he's also Northwest Regional Coordinator. They decided San Francisco was close enough to leave him in the job when you moved." Methos went on quietly, "Which means any and all Watchers in the area update him on where they are and what their immortals are up to."

Duncan could hear where this was going. "You're saying there's an immortal in the San Francisco area that I don't know about. I can already tell I'm not going to like it. Just give me the rest of the bad news."

"One quick rip it is," Methos agreed. "A man called Kendall Myles moved in across the bay, in Tiburon. Thirty years ago he studied with Xavier St. Cloud." Duncan's mouth tightened, as did his hands. "Oh, it gets worse, Highlander. St. Cloud went in for mass killings for profit, but Myles is a purist. Given enough time, he'd be Caspian all over again. He came down here perhaps three months ago -- from Vancouver, Washington. The Watchers lost the first two men who followed him; they don't assign men to him anymore. The current woman has made it three months and she's very sure that Myles had something to do with the death of Chris Guerrero."

Tendons tightened down Duncan's jaw and neck when his memory called up the relevant news articles. "That poor transgender man murdered up in Washington?"

Methos tilted his head in acknowledgment. "The one whose body was found in pieces, and whose death has everyone screaming about a serial killer on the loose."

"Because he was a dark-haired, fair-skinned young man who'd died very badly," Duncan said quietly. "The others weren't dismembered."

"The others were completely male, MacLeod. At a guess, Myles didn't take it well when he found out he was lusting over someone who had some female anatomy."

"And you think he's got Joe here?"

"Myles' Watcher has never met Joe--" Methos' cell phone rang and he fell still. "Only so many people have this number. Let's see what we've got." He took two quick, sharp breaths before he answered the call, pitching his voice to play the distraught nephew. "Uncle Joe? Where are you? Are you all right?"

Duncan moved even closer, head angled in towards Methos so he could hear all of it.

"He can't come to the phone right now, Dawson." Their caller was trying to sound calm, but he sounded like a man pulled away from a hot date.

"Who is this?" Methos asked, playing young and inexperienced for all Joe was worth. Fortunately, he was very good at that.

"That doesn't really matter, does it? There can be only one. You're going to meet me and we're going to bring the number down a little more." He still didn’t sound entirely calm, but he was more steady than he'd been; was this some prearranged script?

"Where's my uncle?" Methos let his voice go angry and Duncan nodded approvingly. "He's not in the Game."

"He's my leverage on you. That's close enough. Meet me under the 280, off Cesar Chavez, in the next hour if you want him back alive. We both know you can find me. If you take longer than an hour, he'll be dead, and I'll still know what you look like."

Duncan stared as Methos shot back, "I know what you look like, too. You tripped his security system. If Joe Dawson dies, your picture will go out to every law enforcement agency with a fax."

After a startled moment, Myles laughed. "And here I was afraid you were going to make this too easy. Get here, Dawson, before I get bored."

Methos let out a small portion of his anger. "Oh, I'll be there." He hung up and studied the ground for a moment as he packed his emotions away; Duncan could almost feel them ripple down into the center of his quickening. Methos straightened again and said, "We're in the right place. He thinks he's got as much as an hour before I get here -- traffic from Joe's place?"

"Rush hour is starting up and it’s going to be bad today with the fog," Duncan confirmed. "That would do it. Does Joe's security system take photos?"

"It can. Some of the pictures I have even look like they could have come from there." Methos waved that aside. "Joe's still alive. I could hear him in the background."

Duncan nodded and pulled a med-kit out of the car and the backpack with a change of clothes for Joe. "We'll need these then." So they'd both heard Joe gasping for breath -- probably from trying to warn them.

Methos looked around one last time before starting across the street, his quickening drawing in as he went. "If Myles shoots me, get back out fast. You have an email from me with a picture of him."

Duncan shook his head. "And leave two of you to him? No. I'll let Myles worry about hauling your carcass. It'll make it easier to get the gun away from him."

The voices on the scanner had been constant and level until now, handling routine business; even through the muffling folds of fabric, both men heard the change in tone. Duncan pulled it out quickly, in time to hear SWAT and EMS were being directed to their address.

Methos stared at him, eyes wide but mouth tightening. "Did you…?"

Duncan shook his head impatiently. "I was driving, remember? Will Myles kill Joe if SWAT tells him to surrender?"

"Joe's heard his voice, maybe seen his face. What do you think?" Methos freed up his weapons.

"Then I'll go in first." Before Methos could argue, Duncan snapped, "You're a better shot. And I've got more mass to hit the door." He was already shoving the med-kit into the backpack.

Methos just nodded. "Go."

Duncan pulled the backpack on and sprinted towards the pair of doors, trying to pick up as much speed as he could in case they were chained shut. He hit the doors hard enough that his shoulder screamed. The doors slammed open a few inches, then caught on something and rebounded back into place. Without a word having to be said, Duncan dropped to the ground.

Methos shot over his head, targeting the hinges down the left side with three blasts from his sawed-off shotgun. Duncan lashed out with a foot, kicking the door inward to dangle on a thick chain.

Methos jumped through the gap and jogged into the shadow-filled building.

By the time Duncan rolled up, Methos was already a few yards ahead of him into the warehouse. For a building deserted for demolition and reconstruction, it still had lights on and didn't have as much debris as it should. The mess in front of them resembled a maze of collapsed plastic light covers, fallen acoustic tile, and metal sheeting listing in every direction.

From ahead and off to the right, towards the center of the building, he heard, "Trap, damn it!" Joe sounded hoarse and furious but alive and thinking.

"No, really?" Methos called back, also muffled by distance. "Where'd he go?"

Duncan was following the sounds, jogging through the mess and finding there were in fact paths. It also had blind alleys. He was backing out of his first dead-end when Joe called, "Off to your left. He's got a pistol and a knife, six inch blade."

Duncan let Methos go after Myles. He had the med-kit, which meant his job was to get Joe out of there. He followed Methos' tracks through the scatter of concrete dust and rust particles, ignoring any path where Methos' footprints doubled back. He kept a sharp eye on his surroundings as he went, both to find Joe and to remember the fastest path back out.

An open area at the center of the warehouse showed Duncan a very welcome sight: Joe Dawson, alive, breathing, and cursing steadily as he tried to fight his way free. Joe's arms were cuffed over his head. When Duncan got close enough, he saw that the handcuff chain was threaded through a hook which had been hammered into the post.

Duncan looked at the warped, dented metal and at Joe, who was glaring at him through two mostly-swollen eyes. Joe's face was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, his t-shirt and boxers were cut up and blood-splattered, but he was moving well enough Duncan could hope there weren’t any internal injuries.

His hands looked like they'd taken the worst abuse. Duncan could only hope no permanent damage had been done, because checking or bandaging any of it would have to wait they got somewhere safer.

The hook was the first problem. The second problem was the lack of prosthetic legs, and the presence of a twisted wreck that had, once upon a time, been a wheelchair. Joe's treasured Blues Brothers sticker was still visible on it, the checklist partially obscured by blood. Duncan just said, "Well, so much for charming the ladies this week. I'm going to have to hurt your wrists a little more, Joe."

Joe snorted and spat blood. "Immortal psychopath, Mac. Do whatever you have to, just get us both back out of here."

Duncan could feel Methos' quickening fade out and flare up again, just fast enough for him to be running full-out. Methos wouldn't be sprinting with a strange immortal in the area, much less one he thought was a serial killer. No. Methos was standing in the dark somewhere trying to stampede the bastard. If he really was young, it might work. Or he might think Duncan and Methos were hunting him like wolves, circling in and out. That might spook him, too.

Duncan wrapped a sleeve of his coat around the handcuff chain, letting the coat shield Joe from line of sight in case Myles had a distance weapon. He grabbed the fabric and chain in both hands and braced a leg against the post, just above the hook. "Hold on, Joe."

Duncan set his grip and pushed off against the post. He ignored the battered links cutting into his hands through the coat, ignored the screech of metal and the howls of his thigh muscles; they weren’t as important as the hook giving way or the wood yielding around it. It didn't matter which. What mattered was that Joe was free and Duncan's katana hadn't been nicked when he might yet need it to get them out of this.

Duncan let go and shook his hands out, disregarding the blood that came free as the fabric peeled out of already sparking cuts. The scanner was still chattering unit numbers: police, SWAT, an ambulance, a bomb squad. All of it was headed their way, which Duncan knew and Joe had no trouble guessing.

Joe said hoarsely, "Christ, Mac, did you call out the cavalry?"

"Not me, Joe." Duncan pulled his coat back on and asked grimly, "Any ribs broken?"

"Just make the pickup," Joe said, his voice flat and tight as he reached for Duncan's arms. So, probably yes.

The lights went out.

Duncan dropped to one knee beside Joe, made sure it was his almost-healed leg that was on the ground, and murmured, "Arms around my neck, Joe."

Joe didn't argue, just looped his still-handcuffed hands around Duncan's neck. Equally softly, in the barely audible whisper they'd both learned on battlefields, he said, "I can guide you in any direction for maybe eighty yards, Mac. Definitely some kind of exit directly across from where you came in. Millard kept going out and coming in that way."

"Then we'll go back the way I came in," Duncan said softly. "I know who I'm betting on in the dark. It's not Myles."

"Myles? Not Millard," Joe said grimly. "Knew I should have known him.…" His words cut off in a muffled grunt of pain as Duncan came up with him.

Without his legs, Joe wasn't nearly heavy enough, which made Duncan mutter some of Connor's favorite profanities. He'd do better later, or better yet, he'd let Joe and Methos do it; they were more creative about it. He said softly, "Which way?"

"Straight ahead for you," Joe said. "You're clear for thirty, thirty-five yards, then we're going to have to slow down and work out the entrance into the metal tunnel. At least you won't need a tetanus shot. Was that the old man?"

They both ignored the scanner's chatter. Duncan had his eyes closed rather than be blinded if the lights came back up. It also helped him concentrate on the sounds of his breathing echoing off the metal and the feel of the air currents. "Yeah, that was him."

Joe muttered something about storm crows and bad pennies that Duncan ignored.

They'd almost made it to the door when the shots came: one from the shotgun, two from a lighter gun, and one reply from the shotgun. None of the shots came anywhere near the two heading for the exit.

Joe hissed but didn't say anything. Duncan said softly, "We're almost there." He'd opened his eyes instinctively at the sound and seen a pool of sunlight ahead of them.

Joe nodded and bellowed, "We're clear!"

Duncan smiled despite his aching ears. "I haven't wrapped your ribs yet, Joe."

"Yeah, yeah, you're dating Matthew, not me…." Joe winced and Duncan didn't have time to ask why before Joe said, "Matthew. Oh, Christ. If Dave called him, would he…?"

Duncan stepped over the half-removed door and out of the warehouse. "If Matthew tracked your cell phone, Joe, it's back there—"

"—covered in my blood, with my wheelchair off to one side. God damn it." Joe shook his head, winced again, and said, "Later. Get us out of here now."

Duncan nodded, crouching to set Joe on the ground by the back tire. "Hold on, I've got to get the door open." Unlocking the car was his first priority, but Duncan kept flipping through his keys once that was done, pulling out the handcuff key he kept on there as a backup for reasons he had no intention of explaining to Joe or Methos.

Joe didn't ask, too busy working the handcuffs out of the bloody welts on his wrists with hands that were more swollen and bloody than his wrists. Duncan scooped him up and settled him onto the backseat of the car before he pulled the med-kit, slightly battered now, out of the backpack. He broke the first icepack to set the chemical reaction going and looked up as he felt an immortal heading his way.

It was Methos, sprinting towards them with all his weapons concealed again.

Now Duncan could hear the sirens.

Joe slid down onto his side, bracing a stump against the driver's seat, one forearm against the back of the passenger seat, and the other forearm on the door over his head. He didn't even try to use his hands. "Get in the car, Mac."

Duncan slung the first aid kit in behind his seat, closed doors, and started the engine.

Methos slid across the hood with a series of metal-on-metal clunks. He hit on his feet, spinning to yank the door open with the arm that wasn't covered in blood.

As soon as Methos was inside, Duncan accelerated smoothly away. The door closed a second later, and Methos pulled his seatbelt on, then reached over to fasten Duncan's. "Nice and slow, Duncan, maybe two miles over the speed limit by the time we're going under the 101. Yes, I know, you drove getaway for Cory and Amanda, but we don't want to follow that example."

Duncan concentrated on slowing his breathing back down. He pulled to the right and slowed down as the first police cars streamed past in the other direction, for all the world a law-abiding citizen who'd had nothing to do with any trouble back there. Without looking back, rubbernecking at the cop cars like any other passenger, Methos said calmly, "And San Francisco's finest arrive. Talk to me, Joe. How’re you holding up?"

"Buddy, I'm not back there with Myles. I am fucking peachy right now." Joe's labored rasps belied his claim, but Duncan couldn't pull over yet.

"Just keep breathing for us and we can work on everything else," Duncan said, picking up a little more speed as the first wave of emergency responders went past. "Methos, please tell me you didn't grab Joe's phone?"

"God, no. Phones can be replaced. So can your wheelchair, Joe." Methos was rearranging his coat to cover up the bloodstains on his arm.

"Yeah, well--" Joe's words broke off in a hiss as Duncan hit a pothole. "We're gonna have to replace my chair fast, Methos. Bastard took my legs for some game he was playing. He kneecapped one, right in front of me."

Methos glanced at Duncan, then up at the ambulance whose flashing lights had sent them over to the side of the road again. "Cross-street coming up, Duncan. Will it do us any good? Joe, do you have any idea what Myles did with your prosthetic after that? Something's kicked up a hornets' nest."

Joe sounded tired finally; the adrenaline was probably starting to crash. "Not a clue, Methos, but dumbass said you guys already knew I was bait. He didn't send my legs to you, Mac?"

Duncan shrugged. "I haven't been home since nine this morning. Maybe he did."

Immortal presence hit them as Duncan pulled sideways for another series of cars with flashers going. From the right lane, Duncan glanced sideways, met Matthew's eyes, and saw his face go blank. Then his car was past them and Duncan turned his attention back to the road. "Methos. Did you get Myles?" He turned right, too, wanting away from the official presence.

"I hit him at least once. He's not dead, no." Methos glanced back at Joe and then said grimly, "What I want to know is how Salisbury got here so quickly."

"Don't ask me, buddy," Joe said; from the sound of his voice, the adrenaline was definitely running out. "I was trying to mind my own damn business."

Back at the warehouse

Matthew answered his phone with most of his attention on the SWAT teams forming up to breach the warehouse. "McCormick."

"He sent you another package, sir." Amar gave him a moment to digest that, voices chattering behind him in a purposeful chaos. "The bomb squad has already checked it. It's another prosthetic leg; this one's been shot through the knee, and there's a bloody hand-print on it. Blood typing is taking a little while, and neither IAFIS or the San Francisco Liquor Board have kicked out Mr. Dawson's fingerprints yet. I have a request in to the Marine Corps for both blood type and prints as well, but the records are almost thirty years old. It may take them a while."

Matthew didn't bother to ask how Amar knew about the first box. The man was an admin assistant, not an agent, but he'd been working at the Oakland office for nine years now and had a higher security clearance than some of the agents. "I see. Anything else in the box, Amar?" SAC Michaels was on a phone call of his own; it was probably Matthew's second-in-command calling him to apprise him of the new 'gift.' Nathan shouldn't have stuck Amar with any of the calls, but Matthew was just as glad to be getting simultaneous notification.

"He sent a note this time: three lines, typed. First line says 'Tag! You're it!' Second line reads, 'Alserda.'" Amar spelled that out, then went on, "The last line is an address one block east of your current location." He added briskly, "We’ve already checked your car for bombs and moved it into direct line of sight of security . Agent Raske is getting a description from this courier. Do you need me to contact anyone for you, sir?"

Matthew shook his head and refused, again, to speculate on what it meant that Duncan and 'Ben' had been leaving as he arrived. "No. Word's already out, Amar, but thank you. Make sure the rest of the office knows this might not stay focused solely on me. Also, I seem to remember Alserda's a surname. See if we have anyone by that name anywhere in the databases, please."

That drew a huff that was probably the least dignified noise Matthew had heard from his secretary yet. "Also already done." A door closed before Amar said bluntly, "We have people checking your career to see if someone's gotten out who shouldn't, Matthew. When you get back, I've also got the list of who was already working on it when I asked. Until you do return, you will kindly keep two things in mind. One, your MacLeod is a martial artist but that doesn't mean he is expecting, or up to, our brand of maniacs. Two, by my calculations, at most you've had ten hours of sleep in the last forty, and that's if you skipped your run this morning. Knowing you, I doubt you did. So watch your temper and watch your back. It looks bad on my review if I break an ASAC this quickly."

Matthew chuckled, as he was meant to. "Reminder accepted and thank you." Much more quietly, he added, "It might be a little late on the temper, though. I'm having trouble convincing people that serial killers don’t care about our standard procedures."

Amar said quietly, "I'll let you know if I hear anything about them pulling Agent Oshiro  
back from the Washington state manhunt. So far, they haven't. If they stick you in a safe house, just send me your library list; you can catch up on your sleep and your reading."

Matthew said dryly, "Thank you so much. Your optimism is inspirational. Keep the office from sliding into the bay, would you?"

"Of course. Also in my job requirements. You know that."

Matthew hung up as the teams went in. He made himself watch patiently, listening to the quiet commentary over the radio and wishing again that he was in there himself. Part of his mind thought he should remember the name Alserda, but he wasn't sure from where. Hopefully it was from work, not his private life.

When he looked around to see who'd gone in and who was prepping to follow, SAC Michaels was standing next to him, watching the scene just as intently. On impulse, Matthew asked, "Do you miss it, sir?"

Michaels glanced over. "The adrenaline rush? Yeah. Some days." He could have left it at that. Instead he went on, "I expected you to fight harder to go in with the front line."

Matthew shook his head. "No. They're the experts at this and a derelict warehouse is definitely a job for a large squad." A sharp crack was followed by a radio explanation of 'just some falling metal.' They both relaxed again, as much as they would until this was done.

Michaels said thoughtfully, "You're not actually what I expected, McCormick."

Matthew shrugged. "I do get that a fair bit. Mind if I ask what you expected?"

"I thought I was getting a by-the-book, classic blue-flamer. One of the type-A overachievers, judging from your record." The bomb teams began moving once SWAT advised they had lanes clear and were in need of expert checks. "You've put enough people away it seemed reasonable. The part that surprised me was that a couple of your references suggested offices run more smoothly around you." He shrugged. "Interestingly, the Oakland office is running more smoothly now."

Matthew turned to face his boss, frowning. "There's no profit in upsetting an office just to upset it. There's rarely need to upend one entirely even when there are problems. Best to fix the one or two things that need a nudge – or occasionally a good swift kick in the ass – and let the rest get on with the work."

Michaels smiled, amused and cynical at the same time. "Do you know why you got this job?"

"Because AD Skinner recommended me for it, I thought," Matthew said, shrugging slightly.

That got a lifted eyebrow. "I wasn't sure if you knew that, or would admit it if you did. But yeah, that's part of it. He wasn't the only one who endorsed you, however, or the only one I listened to. So do you think you're good at what you're doing?" Michaels asked, never looking away from the building.

"I'm having more days where I think I can do it than days I think I can't," Matthew said simply. "Is it what I'd rather be doing? Not necessarily. I think I'm a better field agent, honestly."

Michaels shook his head, almost amused. "There's usually a slight uptick in productivity when we change out ASAC or SAC. Oakland productivity is staying up."

Matthew shrugged. "You gave me some good agents, sir. And the Bureau does run to Type-A overachievers."

"Both true," Michaels agreed. "All right, now that you and I have both calmed down, let's have that talk again. If this were someone else, if it was one of your agents, would you let him work this?"

"Not if he were one of my supervisory agents, or an ASAC?" Matthew asked dryly, but he nodded too. "I know this isn't the answer you want, sir, but yes. I would. For exactly the reasons I gave you: a direct challenge like this has to be answered or the maniac doesn't just explode; he does it in a direction we don't expect, solely to make it clear he's upset. Now, that said, I wouldn't necessarily make my agent lead on it within the Bureau. But I'd damn well put him lead as far as any news to the public went."

Michaels considered that. All he said at first was, "Serial maniacs as thwarted children?"

"A great many of them were," Matthew agreed. All-clears were starting to come from the bomb squads. Thank God.

"It still wasn't the answer I expected, ASAC. Co-lead, huh?" Michaels seemed to be considering it, from what Matthew could read of that set to his shoulders.

Matthew shrugged. "Still speaking hypothetically, not letting the agent be seen to be working on it would definitely be hazardous to the agent. Less hypothetically, I don't know this maniac well enough yet, won't know him until I see Joe Dawson – or whatever's left of him – but thwarting him may lead to some kind of blowup if he's unstable. I don't know that we're in danger of bomb or shooter threats, but I won't pretend there isn't a good chance of it. I'd say have me work it part-time and not necessarily lead, with one or two of your violent crimes boys or girls who wants to go after him."

"It's risky," Michaels said thoughtfully, "but your name's known. It won't take long for him to hear you're on it. And it gets some of my agents a mentor for this." He added wryly, "We both know hunting these maniacs is considered a high-profile specialty."

Matthew's voice was equally dry when he pointed out, "It's not usually one that leads to promotions, however."

"So I've pointed out once or twice," Michaels agreed. "They aren't listening to me on that. Maybe they'll listen to you. I'll send you a few who could make profiler if they wanted but could also go ASAC."

"And I'll kindly bring them along for management as well as hunter?" Matthew nodded. "Thank you, sir. I'll appreciate the help. If I'm doing this part-time, I'm going to need it."

Michaels chuckled finally. "Now I understand some of those recommendations."

Matthew's phone rang and the SAC waved him towards it. "McCormick."

Joe Dawson sounded strained and angry as he said, "Hey, Matthew. I kinda need a ride home, buddy. By way of a hospital, sorry, and hopefully not your office."

Matthew felt himself freeze and tried to keep his voice calm; he probably didn't manage it. "It's rarely been such a pleasure to hear your voice, Joe. Where are you, do you know?"

Michaels stared, eyebrows going up as he mouthed, 'Is that him?' Matthew nodded, and Michaels waved a tech in to start tracing the call.

"Got no clue, Matthew. Gimme a sec and I'll ask. Gonna need you to put in a good word with PacBell for me, too. I kinda bled all over their phone."

Upset people were chattering behind him – male and female, Matthew thought. "We'll handle it, Joe. We're tracing the call for your location now. How badly are you hurt?" He added immediately, "Not on a scale of one to Vietnam, thank you."

"Nah, nowhere near losing my legs," Joe said tiredly. "Gonna need stitches and ribs wrapped, definitely. Don't think I need blood yet, but..." He bit back some words and finally ground out, "Think I'm gonna need a surgeon, Matthew. My hands are pretty fucked up."

Matthew swallowed his rage down, tucking it in with his fear, and tried to keep both off his face. "We'll find them for you, Joe." When he looked up, Michaels was watching him. Matthew relayed, "He'll need a hospital, one with a good hand surgeon."

"Can you get a witness statement from him?" Michaels asked. When Matthew nodded, Michaels said, "I'll go get your new partners. Do not leave without them."

Matthew exhaled. "Of course not, sir. Someone's got to secure the scene while I get Joe to the hospital and get his statement." A cop waved a note in front of him, specifying not only a hospital, but a doctor to ask for.

Matthew nodded a thank you to her and said, "Joe. Ask the people with you where you are."

Joe said, "Gimme a sec, yeah." He didn't bother covering the phone, just said, "Lady and gentleman, where in hell am I?" Someone said something about berths and Joe came back on. "The berths at Mission Creek Garden; Channel Street, near 4th." Joe added, "And they're offering me ice packs and some cushions and bandages 'til you get here. Think I'm gonna say yes. Call Mac for me, tell him everything's cool?"

Matthew shook his head, somewhere between annoyed and worried. This was beginning to sound as if Joe was covering something up. Possible explanations cascaded through his mind, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "I may call him when I've got you safely in medical care, Joe; not before. Don't hang up yet." He heard chatter over the comms as the SWAT team confirmed that they'd found the cell phone, as well as a wheelchair and a lot of blood splatter.

Joe said tiredly, "Matthew, I'm on a pay phone and these folks only have so much cash."

"Then give me their names before you go." Matthew scribbled the address for the pair of agents Michaels had waved towards him, both of them young, eager, and wearing clearly labeled FBI windbreakers which partially concealed their badges.

"That's fifteen minutes from here this time of day," said the man who'd been assigned to him, "maybe ten with our lights on. Come on, ASAC, we've got a car."

Joe came back. "Names are Erland Gulbrandsen and Magda Machado."

Matthew followed them, still talking. "Got it. Just hold on, Joe. We'll be there in fifteen at most."

"Looking forward to it. See you then." Joe was already saying something about, "Appreci-" when the connection cut out.

The female agent was a tall, wiry strawberry blonde whose armoring professionalism reminded Matthew of Agent Scully. The man was shorter, equally wiry, with dark hair. Both of them had sharp eyes and looked like hunting hounds waiting for the release. The man said over his shoulder, "Introductions in the car, sir. Bree, wave one of the ambulances on with us?"

The blonde just said, "Pick me up on your way by, Diego," and took off towards the EMTs at a sprint.

"Or that." Diego wasn't running, but he was moving fast enough that Matthew had to stretch his legs to keep up. "We've been wanting to pick your brain, sir, but not like this."

Matthew snorted. "I've never noticed criminals are convenient in their timing. You'd almost think they like to aggravate us."

"Yeah, some of them are that stupid." Diego veered towards a plain blue sedan with government plates. "Do you want shotgun?"

Matthew said dryly, "I take it you'd rather I didn't for some reason?" He took the back seat without arguing the point; it let him watch both sides of the car.

"If someone's targeting you, let's not make his job easy." Diego gunned the car around with a casual precision that Matthew appreciated and slowed just enough for Bree to grab the door and swing into the front seat. As soon as she did, he accelerated again.

Immortal presence grated against Matthew for a moment: not powerful, but sharp-edged, almost discordant. He hadn't felt anything like it in decades and hadn't expected to feel it in the middle of a crowd of first responders. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the people closest to the car, but Diego was still accelerating away and whoever it was might be young, but apparently he or she wasn't young enough to give themselves away in a crowd.

Damn it.

<> <> <>

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Alyss, Devo, JiM, Killa, Mischief, Raine, Yena, and tarsh for cheerleading and/or beta efforts, to Merewyn for her cheerful assistance with razor choreography, and to Dragon for everything (as usual). All errors are, of course, my fault, and will happily be corrected as found. This series was started before HL: The Raven aired and does not use canon from that, nor from any movie other the first.
> 
>  
> 
> _Comments, Notes, & Miscellanea:_  
> 
> 
> The verb snark originated in Lewis Carroll's poem, "Jabberwocky," which also has the vorpal sword of later D&D fame; in the same poem, you ran the risk of the Snark being a Boojum, which were much more dangerous.
> 
> “Across many countries and at least three continents” — Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s comment on Watson’s experience with women. Matthew means it as a compliment to Joe, but he’s also aware Joe will mock-threaten him over it. (Not that those two like each other or anything.)


End file.
